


be kind, rewind

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: All hurt no comfort, Dissociation, Drabble, Gen or Pre-Slash, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Suicidal Ideation, Suicide, Trauma, connor kills himself
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28007982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: He has to be here. He’s always been here before. If Hank just looks up he’ll be standing right there at his desk, hair neatly done, suit crisp, placid smile on his face.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor, Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 59





	be kind, rewind

**Author's Note:**

> it's like 2AM and i'm supposed to be up for work in like five hours but i had to get this story outta my system 
> 
> fyi, this is still me sorta learning the characters. this fic can be read as either gen or pre-slash (as connor and hank never really got the chance to do anything here).
> 
> also does anyone know fowler's real name bc i'm pretty sure I tagged him wrong

For the first time in years, Hank shows up to work before noon.

He jogs from his car to the front doors of the station, icy sidewalks be damned – once inside, every movement of his head as he scans the lobby feels like hammers banging around inside his skull. He doesn’t fucking care. Hank growls under his breath in fear and frustration, shoving his way past overflowing lines of civilians, ignoring the drone of the news on the TV behind reception, as he makes his way to the bullpen.

He has to be here. He’s always been here before. If Hank just looks up he’ll be standing right there at his desk, hair neatly done, suit crisp, placid smile on his face. At this point Hank doesn’t even care if he were to show up still spattered by blood from last night’s wounds. Hell, he’ll even take that fake fuck from the tower.

Reality is crueler than that, though. And even though Hank knows this, the sight of his unoccupied desk makes what remains of his shriveled old heart sink to his knees.

Connor isn’t here.

Hank stops his walk halfway through the neat grid of desks, staring at the blank nameplate on the desk flush against his.

Connor didn’t get replaced.

Hank’s head pounds to the time of his heartbeat, erratic and painful. He presses the heel of his palm to his forehead, hoping it will still the migraine for a moment. His eyelids start to flutter closed.

“Anderson,” comes a voice across the room, more surprised than upset. “Anderson!”

When he opens his eyes again, Fowler’s gripping the railing on the ramp to his office, looking directly at him. His face isn’t as angry as he was expecting – there’s something like pity there. Fowler hasn’t looked at him like that since –

Hank’s over there faster than he realizes, legs on autopilot.

“Anderson –” he starts.

“Connor.”

Fowler’s lips press into a neat line. “Anderson. We should –”

“You seen him around?” Hank barrels on. “Maybe I’m _too_ early, for once.”

“Lieutenant.”

Fowler’s the one who says it, but Hank barely suppresses the urge to whip around, hoping to meet brown eyes and pulsing blue.

When did he get so attached?

“Anderson, you saw what happened.”

Oh, he saw it all right. He saw it in fucking person, to boot. Rows and rows of crisp white uniforms, confetti in the snow, wind chapping his ears. Connor, on stage. Hands clasped behind his back, shirt loose, awkward smile. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with big damn heroes.

Himself, swallowed by the back of the crowd, looking on. Smiling.

Hank can’t even remember the exact moment it happened. One second that Markus guy was speechifying, the next, Connor was on his back in a mess of blue blood.

He looks away from Fowler, glaring at a spot on the pristine grey floor. Fowler clears his throat.

“We can talk this out. Get you assigned some quiet case after all…that. Might even be able to salvage some of your paid leave.”

Then it comes.

“I’m sorry for the loss of your partn—”

“You know what?” Hank looks back up, scowling. “I’m not even supposed to be here this early. Why don’t you just let it go,” he motions with his hands, “and we’ll have a normal goddamn day.”

“Anderson, I know that you’re upset –”

“Fuck off.”

And then Hank’s legs are moving again, backing him away from Fowler and back into the main part of the building, beelining for god knows where.

“Fuckin’ watch it!” a familiar voice shouts as he bumps into him, but Hank just keeps walking, ignoring Gavin’s follow-up of, “Hey, heard your robo-boyfriend died!”

He turns into a narrow hallway where a blunted winter sun shines through the privacy windows, and automatically ducks into the men’s bathroom that he finds there. Only when he’s slumped inside a stall on the germ-infested seat of a toilet does Hank take a breath, and then another, and then another.

His head still hurts like a motherfucker, like his brain is slamming against his skull, desperate for escape. He’d let it if he could. Maybe he finally will, tonight.

He lets out a groan, and leans his head against the cool tile of the wall. Hank closes his eyes.

_“That’s why you hate androids. You blame one of us for your son’s death.”_

He opens them again.

It’s a stupid-ass idea, but Hank slips a hand into his coat pocket and pulls out his phone. The screen’s stupidly bright, but the pain anchors him. He’s at the front page of the Detroit Sun instantly, tapping on the video link in the headline article.

And like magic, there he is again.

Connor’s standing proudly on the platform beside a host of other androids that Hank doesn’t recognize except from Deviant reports and news stories. The camera abandons him for Markus, the ends of his coat flapping in the wind, lips moving but saying nothing that Hank can hear.

The gunshot comes all too soon. The camera swings away from Markus and to the androids from before now scattering in panic, pulling out weapons of their own. Laying there, eyes wide open, blue blood draining from the top of his plastic skull, is Connor.

Hank pauses the video, staring at Connor’s splintered jaw, the gun in his hand. He doesn’t know for how long.

*

_“Ya done good, kid.” Hank chuckles, and Connor turns from the shifting, talking army of androids to look at him._

_“I did what I can,” Connor replies, eyes sparkling with a sort of sheepish pride. It’s a look that belongs on his face. “I hope it’s enough.”_

_He gives a half-smile, and something inside Hank that he thought died with Cole swells._

*

Hank blinks.

Connor’s dead eyes stare back.

Without breaking eye contact, he swipes the little dot at the bottom of the screen back to the start of the video, and watches it all over again.


End file.
